"I can't answer for the men!" she laughed; "but if you ask me as to the women, I'm afraid I'll have to plead guilty. We are all snobs, on that basis, Mr. Burgoyne. It's only a matter of degree." "Everything is a matter of degree," Burgoyne answered, "from the powder on your face to a municipal councilman's venality." "Is there any powder on my face?" she demanded. "Altogether impersonal," he assured her. "But is there?--I detest powder!" "So does every man--if the women only could be made to believe it. If there is one thing that is disgusting, it is a white-washed face. Let them put it on if they must, but let them rub it off--all of it. A shiny nose isn't half as bad as a powder-smeared one." "Mr. Burgoyne, I must know if there is any powder on my face," she repeated tragically, facing him. He looked long and carefully--so long and so carefully, indeed, that she dropped her eyes, though she did not turn her head. "No," he answered. "There isn't a single trace." "Did it require so long to make sure?" she asked. "I was looking----" "Yes--I noticed you looking," she remarked. "I was looking for--powder. If you think I might be mistaken, I will look again." "You couldn't be mistaken--after such a critical and prolonged--scrutiny!" she laughed. "And it won't be necessary to look again, sir--just at present." "Will the 'present' be very long?" he queried, with assumed gravity. "I cannot tell--it will depend." "Upon what?" "Circumstances." "Of what nature?" "Of different natures--yours and mine." "More especially yours, I presume?" "No--yours, I should say," she replied. "Why mine?" "To give you something to guess." "I'm a poor guesser," he protested. "I thought as much!" she mocked. "It's a masculine failing, I--understand." "Say rather it is a faculty distinctly feminine--and raised to the nth degree." "What are you two talking about?" demanded Pendleton. "I haven't the slightest idea!" Miss Emerson answered. "Have you, Mr. Burgoyne?" "If I have, I can't find it." "Who ever knows what they are talking about at a dinner party?" said Pendleton. "Moreover, who cares? It's all bubbles, usually, that burst the moment they are blown." "Is it?" asked Miss Emerson, with a significant smile. "Dinner talk I mean," explained Pendleton. "Occasionally we strike deeper--then it's something else than bubbles." "How do you distinguish?" Burgoyne asked. "Most people don't, my friend--hence the bubbles." "Precisely--you're one of the don'ts," said Pendleton. "Which being the case, let us change to something more entertaining than bubbles," Burgoyne retorted. "I'll take Miss Emerson, and you amuse yourself for a space with your left-hand opponent." * * * * * * * * * * * "What do you think of Miss Emerson?" Pendleton asked when, several hours later, he and Burgoyne sat smoking on the terrace.